Learning to Let Go
by circleofstars
Summary: The Winchesters investigate a haunting, but when the home owners don't want to let go of their ghost, they turn on those who are trying to help them.
1. Chapter 1

This is set some time in the first season, pre-Provenance and post-Bloody Mary.

**Learning to Let Go**

**Chapter 1**

Tallie Ovington trailed after her father up the wide extravagant staircase of their enormous home. His long, thin back was bent, and he was crying. All through the ceremony, he had cried, and he refused to look at or speak to her. She didn't understand why he was so unhappy. Everybody had been unhappy, all day, for some reason, and they kept trying to comfort Tallie as though they thought that she, too, should be miserable. She had told them that she was fine, and they had smiled at her tearfully and nodded. 'Good for you, kid… she's taking this very well, considering,' they would add, turning to their neighbours, 'brave child.'

In fact, Tallie was more contented than she could remember being in a very long time.

The house was too big for two people – cold and echoing. In the daytime, of course, there were others. Mr Roberts, who answered the door and spent the rest of the time polishing things with a sour look on his face, and Mrs King, who did the cooking, and always had a cupcake for Tallie when she strayed into the kitchen. Various nameless Hispanic girls who did the cleaning. Tallie didn't know where they went at night; it had never occurred to her that they must sleep somewhere.

In the vague years which Tallie could barely remember, while her mother had been alive, the house had seemed smaller – strangely, as Tallie herself had been a lot smaller back then. But in those days, the house hadn't been cold and empty, but warm and cosy, bubbling with laughter and music.

Since then it had been quite a frightening place on some occasions, but it had never ceased to be home, and tonight, the house, for all its far-off corners and ringing silence, was not remotely threatening or uncomfortable. It was truly her own home tonight, and she no longer had anything to fear from it.

Daddy turned into his room without speaking to her, but it didn't really bother Tallie as it would have done on another night. She wasn't afraid any more: she had an overwhelming feeling that, now, everything would be alright.

She slipped into her own room and pulled off the dress she and Mrs King had bought for today. She liked the dress, but she wished she had been allowed to buy the blue one, instead of the black. Black was boring.

Curled up under the covers, warm and secure, Tallie drew her blanket up to her chin, basking in her comfortable bed and safe, beautiful home. The sound of her father sobbing down the hall was welcome in comparison to the usual sound of him chatting softly with his wife. Tallie didn't want Daddy to be unhappy, not really, but it was better that he was alone and unhappy than happy and with _her_.

The quiet house was disturbed by a rattling sound. Tallie frowned around the room in search of the sound's source, but it wasn't obvious, so she slumped happily back into her pillows. It wasn't such a bad noise, really. She could ignore it.

The noise grew more insistent, louder. She sat up again, irritated, and very slightly anxious. She could go get Daddy. But something told her that he didn't want to be disturbed tonight. She got up uncertainly and tip toed across the carpet. Her dressing table was shaking with increasing violence, trembling so hard that her possessions were jigging up and down on its surface. The rattling produced had become still louder, and now it filled the room. The mirror, propped against the wall at the back of the table, tossed itself forwards, so that Tallie saw her own image somersault towards her before the mirror shattered at her feet. She leapt back with a loud yelp.

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Mrs Lucinda King woke up. She sat for several minutes, wondering what had startled her out of her slumber. Somewhere in the great house, something broke. It was amazing, she reflected, how sound carried through these high-ceilinged hallways. Sighing, she rolled out of bed, cursing her protesting joints. _I'm too old to be woken at this hour._

She wandered through the modest rooms of her pretty little suite on the ground floor, at the back of the house. The servants' quarters, naturally. The house had been built in the style of the extravagant homes of the aristocracy in ancient England. Mrs King wasn't worried by the idea of a class divide implied by living in the back rooms of her employer's house. Here, there was no class divide, only wealth, and the life of a housekeeper suited her well. She was a widow, and the company of polite, reclusive George Ovington and his lively little princess Tallie kept Mrs King from a lonely existence.

Upstairs, a crash and a yelp. Definitely upstairs this time. _Tallie_. Mrs King hurried out into the cavernous hallway, her footsteps loud on the polished floor, echoing off the walls, which were decorated with an impressive collection of swords, shields and armour, imported at great expense by Ovington. He was proud of his roots, which he could apparently trace back to the romantic swashbuckling age of medieval England.

The stairs were one of the house's most striking features. Twin staircases curved gracefully round from a single elegant balcony. Tallie loved the stairs; they reminded her of the ones in Disney's _Beauty and the Beast_. They made her feel every inch the princess.

Mrs King hastened up the right hand staircase towards the source of the disturbance, limping slightly as an old injury to her hip began to ache. The aching was always worse in the evenings, especially when it was cold. It was particularly cold tonight, she noticed suddenly, rubbing at goose bumps on her arms.

Finally, she reached the balcony, and paused for a minute, leaning against the ornate rail to get her breath back. She shivered: it really was cold. In fact, she could see her breath as pearly mist in the air every time she exhaled. Breathing hard after the exertion of climbing the stairs – _I really am getting old_ – she built up quite a haze of white droplets in the space in front of her.

When the fog fell away, Mrs King noticed with a shock that she was not alone on the balcony. A figure stood watching her with cold eyes. Mrs King leapt backwards with a shaky cry. This was impossible. Ridiculous.

_I must be going senile,_ she thought, her heart hammering painfully against the inside of her ribcage.

'Is he sorry?' the figure demanded fiercely.

'I… what?' Mrs King asked weakly, backing away until the backs of her thighs met the rail of the balcony.

'Is he sorry?' it repeated.

'I… I…'

Mrs King was at a loss for words. It suddenly occurred to her that she must be dreaming. Of course. She relaxed, and felt herself tip backwards, giving in easily to the slight pressure of the figure's hand against her shoulder. Like many dreams, it ended with a sensation of falling through empty space. Except, on impact, she didn't wake.

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Dean Winchester rolled over and opened his eyes reluctantly, squinting against the glaring sunlight from the window, far too bright for so early in the morning. He rubbed a hand across his face, and eventually sat up, stretching, his eyes still only half open.

'Sam? You awake?' he asked, the words almost lost in a huge yawn.

'Yup,' replied a bright voice from the table.

_Yes, of course you're awake. What is it, just after 5am? Late, for you…_

Dean's eyes woke up enough for him to regard his brother critically. He didn't _look_ tired; he looked irritatingly alert and competent. But Dean _knew_ that waking up that early in the morning couldn't be healthy, whether the cause was a nightmare or just a screwed up internal clock.

'Hope I didn't wake you,' Sam mumbled, with only a hint of apology in his voice.

Dean shrugged. 'Nah, don't think so…' He stood up sleepily and headed into the bathroom.

About half an hour later, dressed and comparatively attentive, Dean sat down opposite his brother.

'You found anything?' he asked. They had been inactive for almost a week, and Dean was getting bored and impatient. Nothing had happened, _anywhere_, which seemed strange enough for them to justify checking it out. It wasn't for lack of trying, though: they had trawled through every newspaper and website available: nothing. At this point, Dean was about ready to fly to Scotland and investigate the Lock Ness monster. Well, maybe not to fly there…

'I don't know… There's a guy convinced his wall talks to him at night… somebody else says her barn is haunted by the ghost of her dead horse… some old lady fell down some stairs in New York,' Sam offered lamely, shrugging his shoulders.

Dean scowled in disappointment, unimpressed by these events. 'An old lady fell down the stairs? When did that become breaking news?'

Sam pulled up the article. 'Well, technically, she fell off a balcony next to some stairs'. He had only scanned the article, not really expecting it to describe supernatural events when the headline was so mundane: 'Local woman dies after slipping on stairs.' _Couldn't the journalist think of anything more…inspiring?_ Sam wondered.

Dean leaned forward to read. _Stair demon? It'll do… nearer than Nessie…_After a few moments, he was examining the text more thoroughly. It might just be his boredom, but he was beginning to think that it might be worth checking out after all, despite the unremarkable headline.

'Hey Sam? Did you notice she's the second person to die falling off that balcony in a week and a half?'

Sam hadn't noticed, but he was familiar with Dean's restless mood, and he wasn't keen on the idea of driving halfway across the country to investigate somebody's slippery floor and insubstantial railing. 'So these people need to be more careful when climbing the stairs. Dean, we're not going to New York because some old lady fell down the stairs. It's a waste of gas.'

'Two people, Sam. In the exact same place… and, look,' he added, indicating a photograph inset in the text of the article. 'It's a creepy-ass old house. It _must _have a spook of some kind.'

Sam screwed up his forehead, frowning hard as he tried to puzzle some sense out of his brother's illogical logic.

'And, this woman died the night the first victim was buried... that's the start of a pattern…'

'And you're not just bored, and clutching at straws?' Sam asked critically.

'Of course not, why'd you think that?' Dean asked, with a wide, innocent smile. Sam scowled. 'Alright, look, we'll just head in that direction… if you can find something better before we arrive, we'll change direction. But it can't hurt to look.'

Sam rolled his eyes. _Fine. Stair demon it is. _

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The Impala rolled to a stop on the road outside the house. Sam squinted out through the blurry veil of rain to see the imposing grey building, with its wide steps up to a massive front door. Dean had a point: it did _look_ like a haunted house, with its pointed arches over the windows and old, dark stone walls. It was the kind of house which was barely complete without a ghost, and for all its splendour, Sam wondered why anyone would want to live in such a creepy building. He turned, sighing, to Dean.

'Well, we're here now, might as well check it out,' he said, in a long-suffering tone which implied clearly that he still thought it was a waste of time, and was kindly indulging his brother's childish whim. Dean picked up on this, and scowled.

'You won't be so pleased with yourself when it turns out I'm right,' he replied, grinning.

Sam rolled his eyes. 'Let's go.'

The downpour outside was so powerful that the brothers were soaked to their skin by the time they had reached the doorway. Dean knocked loudly, and they waited, getting wetter by the second. After a short while, they knocked again.

'Maybe they're out,' Sam yelled over the roar of ten thousand raindrops splashing onto the gravel.

'Maybe it takes a while to get to the door in a house that size,' Dean countered, raising his fist to pound on the black-painted wood one last time, then narrowly missing somebody's nose as the door finally swung inwards.

'Good morning,' the thin man greeted them stiffly. 'I don't think Mr Ovington wants to see anyone today, but if you leave your name, he will get back to you,' he added, with an air of authority which irritated Dean.

'I'm sorry, but it's important that we talk to him immediately,' he said smoothly, producing a state police ID. He brushed the raindrops off his eyelashes in order to see the look on the man's face.

'What interest does the state police have here?' asked the butler, raising a critical eyebrow, still holding the door half closed, leaving the brothers no option but to stand in the rain until he was satisfied.

'There have been a series of accidents in this house, we just want to make sure it doesn't happen again,' Dean replied, his voice harsher now with impatience. 'Excuse me, sir,' he added, finally running out of tolerance and pushing past the butler into the dimly lit hallway. Sam followed obediently. 'Now, if you could find Mr Ovington for us, we can get this sorted out,' Dean addressed the butler, staring him down as though daring him to argue any further. The butler gave him a sour look, but eventually turned, and climbed the impressive staircase with slow, deliberate steps.

Rainwater ran in streams off the brothers' clothes, pooling on the shiny stone floor around their feet. They conversed in whispers as they waited, but their voices still sounded loud in the cavernous hall.

'I don't believe we came all this way because two women fell down the stairs,' Sam grumbled; apparently his mood hadn't been improved by standing in the rain.

'Maybe it's not supernatural at all, maybe _he_ pushed them,' Dean suggested, waving a hand at the retreating back of the offending butler.

'Maybe he'll push you next,' Sam muttered back.

'Well, you're in a charming mood today, Sammy,' Dean replied, raising his eyebrows.

'You're all wet,' a helpful voice pointed out from behind them.

Dean spun round. A girl had crept up on them, and was regarding them seriously from the doorway. She was as tall as his waist, maybe about seven or eight years old, with fine hair of a dark, muddy brown colour, and huge, bright eyes. He looked down at himself in mock surprise.

'Oh, you're right,' he grinned. 'How did that happen?'

She giggled, tiptoeing closer. 'It's raining, silly. Who are you?'

Dean told her. 'We're policemen, we're here about things that have been happening in this house.'

'Like Mrs King? I wish she wasn't dead,' the girl mumbled, frowning, looking down at the floor.

Dean crouched down in front of her so that their eyes were on the same level. 'I'm very sorry. We want to make sure it doesn't happen to anyone else.'

'I didn't want it to happen to anyone else,' she told him earnestly, her wide eyes staring into his with panic.

'Hey, it's ok. What do you mean?'

'_She _fell. Last week, I remember. But I didn't want it to happen to Mrs King. She was nice.' The girl's face crumpled, and a silvery tear slipped out of her eye. Dean put a hand on her shoulder gently.

'It's ok.' Curious, but unwilling to push it any further, Dean changed the subject. 'What's your name?' he asked. 'Do you live here?'

'Yes,' she replied, brightening. 'I'm Tallie.'

'Dean Winchester. My brother, Sam,' he told her, waving an arm to indicate his brother, who was standing behind him, frowning thoughtfully.

'Dean…' she repeated, trying out the sound of the name. 'Will you make sure no one else falls? I don't want anyone else to fall.'

'Yes, I will,' he promised.

'Mr Ovington will see you now,' called a stiff voice from the balcony between the two staircases. Dean squeezed Tallie's shoulder and turned away to follow Sam up the stairs.

TBC...

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Reviews will be much appreciated. And they'll help me put up the second chapter quicker!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

George Ovington was a small man, thin and slightly hunched, which made him seem smaller still. His face was made up of sharp angles and deep hollows, made deeper by his tight expression of controlled grief. Dean assumed he must be Tallie's father, but saw little resemblance between them, besides the small frame. When the brothers entered the office, he was seated behind a heavy mahogany desk behind a pile of paperwork, although he didn't look like he had any intention of working through it. The man was dwarfed even further by the size and expensive furnishings of the room, so he seemed a pathetic figure; an unlikely owner for such an impressive estate.

Sam had reproached Dean quietly on the way up the stairs for using their real names to Tallie. 'It doesn't exactly help our story. And it's not the name on the IDs we're using, you idiot!' he hissed, out of the corner of his mouth.

Luckily, Ovington was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice the details. He sat slumped behind the desk, examining their faces with dead eyes and answering their questions in a hoarse monotone.

'Mr Ovington, we understand that two members of your household have been killed in falls from the balcony in the hallway?' Sam prompted, as sensitively as he could manage.

The man nodded, swallowing a lump in his throat. 'Yes,' he replied, his voice breaking with emotion. He collected himself quickly before continuing. 'My… my wife… uh, she fell. And now, my housekeeper. I don't know how it happened…'

'There's no way somebody else could have been involved?' Sam asked softly.

Ovington was sharper than he seemed. 'You think someone killed my wife?' he demanded. Then his voice softened again. 'No… the only people in the house were me, my daughter and Roberts. Both times. They just… fell.'

'And nobody in the house… had any grudge against either victim?'

'No! They weren't murdered!'

'Ok, I understand,' Sam soothed him, 'and… this is going to sound weird… but… you haven't noticed anything… strange, recently?'

'Like what?' he challenged.

'Uh… maybe, weird noises, at night. Or… lights, not working. Things moving.'

'What kind of question is that? No, nothing. It's an old house, sometimes the lights don't work, sometimes the pipes make noises. Nothing weird. What's happened…' his voice threatened to break again. 'They were accidents. There's nothing to investigate. Should I get Roberts to show you out?' He raised an eyebrow, suddenly exuding authority from his sunken dark eyes.

'No… we can manage,' Dean answered the question, standing and heading for the door.

'Thank you,' Sam said politely as he followed his brother out. 'He's probably right,' he added to Dean when the door had swung shut behind them. 'Coincidences happen.'

Dean raised an eyebrow. _No, not really, they don't._ He shrugged and headed for the stairs, but was stopped by a shrill voice behind him.

'Dean!' Tallie ran forward and plucked at his jacket with small fingers.

'Hey, what's up?' he asked, surprised.

'I was outside the door,' she admitted, her eyes flicking down as if to acknowledge that she knew she shouldn't have been. 'I heard… the "strange things"… my mirror jumped off the wall. The night Mrs King fell. Does that count?'

'Your mirror… jumped…?'

'Yes. The table was shaking and then the mirror jumped on its own and it broke on the floor by my feet.'

Dean glanced back at Sam. _I told you so_.

Sam shrugged slightly as if to say '_Maybe, but I'm not convinced yet'._

Tallie seized Dean's hand and he allowed himself to be led into a nearby room. It was decorated in soft shades of pink and yellow, and surprisingly tidy for a child's bedroom, except for the area around the dressing table, which was littered with shards of glass. The wooden frame of a mirror lay amid the mess, cracked cleanly down the middle, showing that it must have collided with the floor harder than just falling.

Dean grabbed Tallie by the shoulders, wary of her bare feet on the broken glass. 'You stay here, let me look, ok?'

She nodded, and perched on the edge of her bed to watch him. He produced a walkman-like piece of equipment from a pocket of his jacket and held it close to the broken mirror while carefully picking up shards of glass with the other hand. Sam looked on unenthusiastically, but then brightened despite himself when the device began whirring loudly, and came to crouch down next to his brother.

The brothers listened to the buzzing for several seconds, then Dean turned it off abruptly. 'Oh, you of little faith, Sammy. I told you I'm always right,' he muttered, under his breath.

Sam looked up at the ceiling sullenly, still unwilling to admit defeat, but unable to find a way out of it. 'Alright. Yes, you were right. Happy?'

Dean grinned. 'Yup.' He turned to Tallie. 'Thank you for showing me… I think I know what's going on, now. What can you tell us about the two people who have died? I know it's hard, but it might be important…'

'I don't mind. First it was _her. _It's better without her. I'm glad she's dead,' she said, with a child's unreserved honesty.

Sam looked stunned. 'Tallie, your _mother?_' he asked, horrified.

She turned to him angrily, coals burning in her eyes. 'She's _not_ my mother! She's not!' she yelled, an unexpectedly fierce expression twisting her face, tears glistening in her eyes.

'Hey, hey, ok…' Dean calmed her, crouching down once again to her level. 'Can you tell us if… if she and Mrs King had anything in common?' he asked gently.

Tallie sniffed, composing herself. She shook her head. 'No… I mean… I don't know, they both lived here, I guess,' she offered, shrugging her narrow shoulders.

'Ok. We're gonna go find out what's doing this, ok? Then, when we know, we'll make it stop. And…' he searched his pockets for a scrap of paper, and scrawled on it with a leaky black pen. 'If anything is happening, anything scary… you call me, ok?'

His wide hazel eyes looked directly into her small, tear-streaked face. She explored his eyes, and decided to trust them, taking the scrap of paper. She nodded earnestly.

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'Wow, that kid was creepy,' Sam muttered, one they had found a motel and dumped their bags in the threadbare but clean room.

Dean frowned. It was unlike Sam to be judgemental, particularly where children were concerned. 'So she didn't get on with her stepmother. Maybe the woman was a complete bitch; it's understandable that she didn't want you referring to her as her mother.'

'Dean, that "complete bitch" is _dead_. And Tallie said she was glad. She's happy that her stepmother is dead!' Sam protested.

'We don't know what her stepmother was like, Sam.'

'Maybe _Tallie_ pushed her,' Sam suggested softly, unsure that he wanted Dean to hear his comment.

'What? Come on, Sam. She's a little shrimp. She couldn't push a kitten over a balcony. Anyway, she liked the housekeeper, she wouldn't have pushed _her_. And anyway, there was a spirit in that house, you heard the EMF.'

'Ok, ok… Still seems a little creepy, saying she's glad her stepmother is dead… but, though I hate to say it… you're right,' Sam admitted. He blinked, seeming to mentally shake himself. 'So… you reckon… a spirit?'

_Back to business,_ Dean thought. 'Yeah, probably. The mirror throwing sounds like a spirit.'

'Right… so we need to find out what has had a violent death in that house – probably by being pushed off the balcony, or jumping off – and why it's suddenly started attacking now,' Sam summarised, shrugging.

Dean nodded slowly.

'Local records, then, I guess. Library,' Sam concluded, sounding less than thrilled at the idea of long hours of research.

Dean smiled sarcastically, his lips curving into a grin while his eyes remained hard. 'My favourite.'

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The librarian was a frumpy elderly woman who came over twittering and excitable when they claimed to be interested in the old house. Apparently, it had played a fascinating role in the history of the town, had been owned by a series of interesting characters and displayed architectural features dating back to God knows when. It took a while to get rid of the woman so that they could start the slow and frustrating work of scouring through the boxes of records she had brought them.

The "interesting" characters that had lived in the Ovington house over the years turned out to be anything but interesting, and none of them seemed likely material for this particular spook. One owner, Mr Thomas Locksley, had been murdered, but he hadn't been in the house at the time, and he had drowned, not fallen off a balcony. All in all, the search was a failure, and even when every record had been double-checked, nothing remotely promising could be found.

At 7.30pm, the dull librarian returned to tell them she was closing, and ushered them out. Back in the motel room, Sam let himself collapse backwards onto a bed, rubbing his eyes, which were stinging from long hours reading tiny print in a badly lit library.

'Well, it's not the house. Maybe something else… something in the house? If Ovington had bought an antique or something… I mean, objects can be haunted, too, not just places. Like Bloody Mary's mirror.'

'Yeah, I guess…' Dean sighed. He slumped down onto the other bed. 'We'll have to go back and ask Ovington. The library won't have records of everything the guy's bought.'

A few hours later, Dean's cell rang. He frowned at it, confused, then shrugged and dragged himself to his feet and across the room to answer it.

'Mmm?' he asked, as a sort of vague greeting.

'Dean?' the voice was small, high pitched and breathless. Frightened.

'Tallie? You ok?'

'It's here. It's breaking things in the hallway, I can hear it.'

'Are you sure?'

'Ye -' her reply was cut off by a resounding crash in the background. 'I'm sure,' she squeaked.

'Ok, we're coming. Whatever you do, don't go near the stairs! Stay in your room, you hear me?'

'Ok…' Another crash in the background. 'Come quick!'

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The door was locked, of course. Any amount of kicking didn't move it an inch: it was too heavy, too secure. The brothers could hear occasional crashes from inside the house. Giving the doors one last kick, more out of irritation than because it would help, Dean pulled out his cell phone.

'Tallie?'

'It was in my room! Help me!'

'Ok, Tallie, we're here, but we can't get in. We need you to come down and open the door, can you do that?'

'I don't know… it was throwing things… I was hiding under the bed.'

'Is there another way down, without going down the big staircase?'

'Aah, yes, I think so.'

'Tallie, I need you to go down those stairs, and come round and open the front door for us. You'll be ok, just… hide if you see anything…' Dean didn't like having to ask the little girl to leave the safety of her hiding place, but he was pretty sure that no other member of the household would be willing to let them in.

'Ok, I'm coming…'

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Tallie lay still and silent for a few seconds. She could hear distant crashing noises from the hall, but nothing close by. She slipped out from under the bed, still clutching her daddy's cell phone in one hand. As soon as she had cleared the bed, she looked up, taking in the empty room. From her position on the floor, the room looked distorted, and shadowy corners looked threatening. She stayed as low to the carpet as she could – it was safer there, now that Dean had cleared the glass away for her. Her chin was almost close enough to feel the soft fibres of the rug brushing her skin.

She crawled across to the door, pulling herself along with her hands flat on the floor, wriggling her body along behind it. In the doorway, she stood up, with slow, tense movements, opening the door as slowly as she could and wincing when it creaked loudly. She cast a panicked look down the corridor towards the hall. She could see the balcony, and the empty dark space beyond it.

Creeping off in the other direction, hugging the wall, she stopped opposite another door. Somehow sure that it could see her if she ventured out into the middle of the passage, she was terrified at the thought of crossing to Daddy's door, but she had to know that he was ok, and she thought he should know about the bad thing in the hall. Swallowing hard, she dropped to the floor again, and wriggled her way across the polished floorboards of the passage. Straightening up as close to her father's door as she could get, she knocked softly, and called to him under her breath.

'Daddy, there's a bad thing here.'

'Tallie?' a muffled voice asked.

'There's a bad thing in the hallway,' she hissed urgently into the door.

'It's ok sweetheart. Don't be afraid of the dark.'

'But Daddy –,'

'Don't worry. Go to sleep. It'll be ok in the morning.'

She gave up. Daddy didn't want to see her; he hadn't wanted to since the day after his wife had died. She hoped he would feel better soon.

Now clinging to the other wall, she edged down the corridor and finally reached the narrow, curving back stairs. Tallie didn't usually use them: the front stairs were fit for a princess, but these were dull and unimpressive. If they had been a dark spiral staircase, she might have pretended they were a secret passage, but they were no good for that either.

Despite their mundane appearance, she was happy to reach these stairs tonight. She hurried down them, feeling less vulnerable now that she could not be seen from the hall.

The bottom of the stairs came out into the long straight passage from the kitchen to the dining room where Tallie and her father took their meals. It seemed less familiar at night – the shadows were in the wrong places. She ran down the passage, ghosted through the dining room and came finally to the door leading into the hall. It was the same door she had used to surprise the Winchester brothers the day before.

She peeked round the door frame. The hall was deceptively still, all activity seemed to have ceased. Her eyes traced the distance from where she stood to the main door. Maybe twelve steps, if she ran. She glanced around the room one last time, to be sure that nothing was there, then took a deep breath and ran directly to the front door.

Her fingers fumbled for the latch as she collided with the wooden portal, not bothering to slow down. She found it, and the door swung open. To his surprise, she threw herself into Dean's arms, sobbing in relief.

Dean made soft, soothing noises, and stepped into the room, still holding the panicked child.

'Where is it?' Sam hissed, looking around the hall in confusion as they moved slowly into the centre of the room.

The silence was broken by a soft _clink_ sound high above their heads. Sam tilted his head back slowly; afraid of what he would see.

A massive chandelier of brass and dangling glass beads was swaying precariously on its chain in the vaulted ceiling.

'Get back!' Sam yelled, grabbing the back of Dean's shirt and yanking him over backwards, pulling Tallie with him, as the enormous contraption shattered on the hard floor in front of them with a resounding crash, showering them with dislodged glass beads. The three lay on the floor in shock as the echoes of the crash bounced around them.

Among the twisted wreckage of the chandelier frame, a figure materialised. Pale, flickering, dead eyed, but unmistakeably a person. Dean heard Tallie gasp, and felt her draw back against him, away from the figure.

'Is he sorry?' it demanded.

'He might be,' Tallie whispered. 'But I'm not.'

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Reviews please!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

'Tallie, do you know who it is?' Dean asked, pulling her to her feet without taking his eyes off the flickering figure in front of them.

She turned round and looked into his eyes, her dark orbs wide and full of fear. 'Yes,' she breathed. 'It's _her._'

'Your… dad's wife?' he asked, remembering how she hated to be associated with the woman, and stopping himself from saying 'stepmother'.

She nodded earnestly, still clinging onto his jacket tightly. Dean pulled out a shotgun loaded with rock salt and aimed it carefully at the figure in front of them, who was smirking cruelly down at Tallie. Before he could pull the trigger, something lifted him up and threw him forcefully across the room, with Tallie still in his arms. They collided heavily with the doors, and Dean curled his body protectively around Tallie to keep her from the main force of the impact. He felt his shoulder crack; as a penalty for protecting Tallie, he had made himself vulnerable.

Sam glanced over to check on his brother before firing a rock salt shell at the spook, which dodged it skilfully and reappeared atop the balcony, out of range. Sam sprinted over the stone floor and started up the stairs, two at a time. As he neared the top, the figure moved around the corner into the corridor.

'Sam, stay off the balcony!' Dean yelled, scrambling to his feet, using his good arm to lift Tallie.

Near the top of the stairs, Sam stopped and turned. 'I can't get it, it's round there,' he called, moving up another step.

'Stay off the balcony!' Dean repeated urgently.

Sam spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness, frowning at his brother. _Well, what do you suggest? _Shaking his head, he tried to compromise by stepping out onto the balcony with his back right up to the wall, as far from the edge as he could get, edging out slowly so that he could see into the corridor. For a split second, he had a view of the passage, apparently empty, and then all at once his vision was filled with the pale light of the spirit.

'Get down!' someone screamed at him, and he flung himself instinctively onto the floor, coming close to sliding down the opposite staircase, as the ghost rushed over his head, took a swan dive off the balcony and disappeared.

'Idiot, what did I tell you?' Dean reproached him when he reached the bottom of the stairs, breathing heavily. 'If she could throw me across the room, she could throw you over that balcony.'

Tallie frowned at him disapprovingly, clearly taking Dean's side. She plucked at Dean's jacket with small fingers. 'Is it gone?' she asked anxiously.

The brothers exchanged a look, and it was Sam who answered. 'Yes, she's gone. For now, she's gone.'

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In the morning, they would have to come back and ask some more questions, like where the late Mrs Ovington was buried. And the truth about how she had died. But for now, it could wait: Tallie was in danger of falling asleep on her feet.

'What about your father, Tallie?' Dean asked her softly as he led her up to her room, walking quickly past the dangerous area at the top of the stairs. 'He must have heard what was happening.'

'He'll be cross about the big lamp,' Tallie mumbled sleepily. 'He's in his room. I told him there was a ghost, but he didn't want to come.' Her voice trailed off, and Dean settled her into her bed. She was fast asleep by the time he left the room.

He met Sam in the hallway. 'You ok?' asked the younger brother, noting Dean's pale face, and the way he supported one arm by holding it at the elbow with the other hand.

'My shoulder's out, you can push it back when we get to the motel room.'

Sam nodded, and held out his hand for the keys. Dean hesitated, making a face. Sam raised his eyebrows, extending his outstretched palm pointedly.

'Oh, all right then,' Dean grumbled, fishing the car keys out of his pocket and throwing them at Sam's chest.

Back in their room, Sam took a firm hold of Dean's upper arm with one hand, bracing his back with the other. Grimacing, he jerked the arm back mercilessly, hearing it settle back into place with a resounding crack. Dean released a string of curses under his breath, turning a vivid shade of white, so that his eyes stood out in sharp dark contrast against his white skin.

'Tylenol?'

'Yes, please,' he croaked.

'So the ghost _is_ Mrs Ovington… they're not two victims of the same thing…' Sam reflected, as he rummaged in his bag for the painkillers. 'That's a pretty quick manifestation, she only died last week,' he added.

'And it suggests that she was pushed. Or jumped.'

'Probably she was pushed, the way she's taking it out on other people… I guess maybe Mrs King pushed her,' Sam suggested, shrugging.

'If Mrs King had pushed her, the ghost'd be gone by now. Job done. But she's still about. More likely she blames it on the entire household.'

'Did you hear Tallie, when the ghost appeared?' Sam asked hesitantly. '"He might be sorry but I'm not." What do you make of that?'

Dean frowned. He was reluctant to believe that the kid had had anything to do with her stepmother's death, but she had made it clear that they didn't get on. Still, the ghost had asked 'Is _he_ sorry?' suggesting that her killer was male, or at least the person she blamed for her death. He looked up at Sam and shrugged, then immediately wished he hadn't when his shoulder screamed in protest.

'I think we need to ask some people some questions,' he said, lying back on his bed with a sigh, then adding, 'In the morning.'

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Roberts opened the door and made a face when he saw that the Winchesters were back. Dean could see the cogs turning behind his eyes, searching for a reason to send them away.

'Let them in, please, Mr Roberts,' said a small voice, with surprising authority from a little throat. Roberts scowled and stepped back, allowing the brothers to step inside, where they were met by Tallie, who looked tired but still seemed bouncy.

'Tallie, can you take us to see your father?' Dean asked, softly, and she nodded, taking his hand in both of hers, and leading him up the stairs and back through the house to the office that they had visited the previous day. Ovington was seated in the same position, behind his desk, but if anything his face looked even more exhausted and sunken than it had the last time. He looked up in mild surprise when his daughter entered with the two Winchester brothers.

'Daddy, we need to talk to you,' Tallie announced, in the same authoritative voice that she had inflicted on Roberts. 'Our house is haunted. By _her._'

Dean was expecting the man to laugh, to tell Tallie not to be so excitable, to look confused or even to react with fear to this idea. But his expression was a strange mixture of resignation and delight when he turned his face towards them.

'I know.'

A silence followed. Dean blinked, digesting this new development with some difficulty. Tallie glared at her father with narrowed eyes, suspiciously. Sam scratched absently at his temple, frowning in confusion. Ovington stared openly up at the three of them, a barely visible smile playing on his lips. He broke the silence after along moment.

'Please sit down.'

The Winchesters did as they were told, silently waiting for everything to become clear.

'I'd like to thank you for what you did last night. Yes, I knew you were here. My wife, Ellen, died, sadly, last week, and she has returned, because she believes that I didn't show her enough affection and that it is in some way my fault that she died. She is quite right, and she is entitled to be angry. I'm very sorry about what happened to Mrs King… it was Ellen's way of making me pay. I have succeeded in communicating with Ellen, and I can reconcile with her so that she will no longer cause harm. I assure you, you don't need to worry about any more deaths.'

Sam nodded slowly, taking in what the man said. Tallie sat between the brothers, her small face looking rebellious.

'We can help you, sir,' Sam offered politely. 'We just need to know where Ellen is buried, and we can put her to rest, so she won't hurt anyone else.'

Ovington looked up again from his paperwork with hard eyes. 'That won't be necessary. I can work out my problems with my wife. Thank you, but we don't need your help.' His voice was polite, but stubbornly final.

Dean leaned forward, trying to engage the man's eye and make him see sense. 'Look, Mr Ovington… Ghosts… they just see in black and white, if they think you're guilty, they don't change their minds. I think you and Tallie would really be safer if -,'

'I think I know my wife better than a stranger,' Ovington cut it, anger seeping into his voice. 'I have succeeded in communicating with Ellen. She hears and understands what I say.'

'It doesn't mean she'll change her mind, she could still hurt you…'

'_Thank_ you, Mr Winchester. For your advice. Shall I get Roberts to show you out?' he asked, using the same abrupt dismissal as he had the previous day.

Dean sighed heavily. 'No, thanks.'

The brothers left the house dejectedly, without much more information than they had had before.

'You know we've still got to burn the damn thing,' Dean stated as they trudged down the steps in front of the house.

'Yup.'

'Well, she was only buried last week. Can't be too hard to find.'

'And now we know her full name. Ellen Ovington.'

Curiosity made Dean long to know how she had really died, and why she really wanted to take revenge on Ovington's household. His excuse was too vague to be believable. But either way, it didn't make much difference. If they could find the body, salt it and burn it, the ghost would be gone.

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As predicted, the grave wasn't hard to find. The town had a couple of cemeteries, but they only had to scan the names on the newest stones to check for Ellen Ovington's tomb. In the second cemetery, they found it. A large bouquet of roses was propped against the stone, wilting, the petals going brown and curving inwards at the edges. The effect was sadder than that of the graves with no flowers at all.

They started digging.

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Tallie stayed close to the phone, knowing that Ellen would be back that night, and distrusting her father's assurances that she wouldn't hurt her. The house was quiet again. She crept out of her room and down the empty corridor to the very last door, then slipped inside. It was the room that her parents had shared when her mother had been alive. Daddy had moved, after she died, and he never came in here any more; at least, Tallie had never seen him in here. Really it was her mother's room more than it had ever been his. _She _had never come in this room either. In all the house, this was the place where she could be safest from _her._

The carpet was dusky green, thick and warm under Tallie's bare feet. The room was smaller than most in the house: her mother used to say that it was a cottage inside the castle. The decoration was simple, but delicate and pretty, unlike the grand, ornate style of the rest of the house: the vast mahogany desk in the study, the swords and shields on the wall in the hall.

Tallie curled up in a little cream-coloured armchair, breathing in the lingering scent of spicy perfume. It was a subtle aroma, but interesting, and Tallie savoured it, comparing it scornfully to the sickly, flowery potion Ellen used to spray on herself. Tallie remembered the smell of Ellen remaining on her cheek after her stepmother had slapped her with an open hand, the time she had tried to tell Daddy what a nasty woman he had married.

Ellen had gotten worse and worse after those first few blows. In front of Ovington, they would only bicker, and then he would tell Tallie off for being rude to her stepmother. When Ellen was out, Tallie crept into her father's room and said she didn't like Ellen. He had been sympathetic. He loved his daughter; she was all that was left of his beautiful first wife, and she was full of a bubbling energy which was entirely her mother's gift. He lived for his daughter. But he loved his new wife, too.

He had told Tallie to try harder, try to be nice to her, and then maybe they could get to know each other better and they would learn to love each other. He had a quiet conversation with his wife, imploring her to make an effort; he really wanted her to get on with his daughter. Ellen had taken out her anger on Tallie.

After that, Tallie had come to hate and fear her stepmother more than anything else. More than spiders, and snakes, and Darth Vader. Daddy had never known. Until one day he came home earlier than expected, to see Tallie struggling to get away from her stepmother, who held her by the throat on the balcony at the top of the stairs. Ovington had been seized by a blinding rage, so that he could see nothing than a blurry figure with its hands around his daughter's neck. He had run up the stairs and pulled the hands roughly from Tallie's throat, pushing the attacker away from his daughter as hard as he possibly could. When the rage cleared, it was just in time for him to see his wife's shocked face disappear over the edge.

George Ovington loved his wife. And he was sorry.

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A spade struck something hard beneath the loose dirt. _Finally._

The brothers cleared the rest of the black earth away from the top of the coffin, which was still so new that the wood was bright with varnish. The lid lifted easily.

The body was old enough to be a hideous grey colour, the face slack and eyes half open. It wasn't old enough to feel like burning bones, rather than a person. There was still enough humanity in the face that Sam tried to avoid looking at it as he scattered salt and lighter fluid over her.

Dean rummaged through his duffle bag, and produced a lighter. He began to straighten up, but stopped abruptly, feeling something cold, metallic and _sharp _graze the side of his throat.

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Lol, I always complain when people leave cliffhangers, and now I'm doing it to you. Sorry! ; )


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Ovington. Who else? With one of the ancient swords from his wall grasped in one hand. _Who would have guessed he keeps them sharp?_ Standing beside his wife's tombstone, his face trembling with emotion, but his hand steady. The blade, cold against Dean's neck. _Now what?_

'Get away from her!' the distraught man commanded, as though they could really hurt the woman any further.

'Mr Ovington…' Sam began. Inwardly, Dean groaned. Sam was using his _reasonable_ voice. The one that always drove people crazy. 'Please, calm down. We have to do this. The spirit… isn't like your wife when she was alive. You can't reason with her.'

'Get back!' he yelled, his hand shaking very slightly, causing a bead of blood to trickle onto the bright blade. Tiny, only a pinprick. But it made it very clear that Ovington was in control, and Sam froze.

Trying very hard not to move, Dean tried to talk sense into the man. But Ovington's was not the face of a man who is ready to listen to sense. 'Alright, listen. I know you miss your wife, but while she's haunting your house, you're in danger. Tallie's in danger.' He hoped the sound of his daughter's name would get through to him.

'Tallie… she's the reason why my wife's dead,' the other man sobbed, not really addressing the Winchesters, but talking to himself. 'But Ellen is still here, she's still with me. I can make peace with her… as long as she's not gone... I can't have killed her. I can't have, if she's still here… it's you who wants to take her away!' he added, suddenly looking up at Sam, passion lending strength to his voice. 'You want to kill her, and I won't let you!'

Dean turned, carefully, the blade leaving a shallow cut on the side of his neck as he moved. 'Mr Ovington, your wife is _dead._ Look, there, that's her _body!_' He regretted the outburst when the point dug deeper into his skin, and a thin red path shot down onto his chest, soaking into the collar of his shirt. _Reason doesn't work with crazy people, especially ones with swords._

Sam stepped back from the grave's edge, raising both hands as though somebody were holding a gun to his head, not threatening his brother with a sword. It was more or less the same thing, as far as Sam was concerned. 'Please,' he implored, 'we'll leave your wife, that's fine. We'll leave. Let him go.'

'Wait,' Dean objected. Sam glared at his brother. _What? Do as he says, he's got a sword. This is not the time for heroics._ 'Wait – what about Tallie? She's on her own in that house with the ghost – with your wife. I know you don't think she's a danger… but, just to be sure, ok? We'll check on her, you and I; Sam can stay here. And then we'll leave, you'll never see us again. Ok?'

Sam made a wordless sound, as if he wanted to protest too urgently to wait and form sentences. Ovington looked at Dean, and nodded. His expression was more that of a frightened animal than anything else, as if all the events had become too much for him.

'Ok… You stay here… tidy that up, fill it back in,' he instructed Sam. 'If you hurt her… I'll kill him.' He voiced the threat in a voice filled with doubt, as though uncertain that he could kill. _Well, kill again, _Sam reminded himself, recalling Ovington's garbled confession. He glared at Dean as he and Ovington began to walk away. _This is one of your worst plans ever…_ he thought.

Dean glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes wide and urgent, as though he was trying to convey a message using them alone. The fingers of one hand relaxed, and something dropped onto the damp grass, unnoticed by Ovington as he continued to walk away. Sam picked it up: the lighter. The message was clear: Dean wanted him to torch the bitch anyway.

Left alone, he considered his options. He could follow them. But as soon as Ovington caught a glimpse of him, he could cut Dean's throat with a flick of the wrist. No good. He could do as he was told, fill in the grave and wait. But Ovington wasn't the only danger in the equation: he and Dean were going back to the house, and if Ellen Ovington's ghost was still as active and violent as she had been the previous night, she could easily attack them both and Tallie as well. He needed to dispose of the ghost. But he couldn't do so before the others reached the house, or Ovington would lash out when he couldn't sense her presence.

As Sam saw it, his only hope was to wait long enough for them to reach the house, and hope that in the confusion Dean would be able to move away from Ovington's blade. _Then_ torch the bitch. Sam didn't like this plan much more than he had liked the last one. It was too vague, depended too much on luck, and he would have to guess the timing exactly right, then hurry to the house and see if he had been correct, wondering all the way how many bodies he would find when he arrived.

In the distance, he could still see Dean and Ovington's retreating backs. He squinted at them to estimate the speed they were walking at, and tried to calculate how long it would take them to reach the house. And hoped for a miracle.

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Dean walked stiffly; very conscious of the sharp point hovering in front of him, no longer pressed against his skin now that they were moving, but still close enough to make him uncomfortable. He wasn't particularly happy with this plan, but he hadn't been able to think of anything better on the spur of the moment, and he hoped that the dropped lighter would convey the message to Sammy.

Ovington's breathing was heavy and wheezy beside him. Suddenly, he stopped walking at the side of the road, and searched through his pockets, then sighed, and stopped. 'Do you have a cell phone?' he asked Dean, with such a polite manner that it seemed ridiculous, under the circumstances.

Confused, Dean held out his phone for Ovington to take. Ovington dialled quickly, a very short number, maybe only three digits… _damn…_

'Police, please. Yes... I want to report… well, there was this guy, in West cemetery. Digging… I mean… I think maybe he was trying to steal from the graves…'

The muffled voice on the line said 'thank you', and Ovington hung up, handing the phone back to Dean.

_Damn it, _Dean thought. _The guy may be unstable, but he's nobody's fool. _

It wasn't that far back to the house; the town wasn't particularly large. The house stood out on the horizon, grey and imposing; almost wherever you were in the town, you could see it. It stood out more than usual tonight, because some of the lights were flickering. Dean was frustrated by the slow pace Ovington set, but eventually they reached the wide front steps. It was starting to rain, and Ovington kept the blade perilously close to Dean's neck.

Ovington pushed hard on the door, but it didn't budge.

'You got a key?'

'Yes…' He produced the key, turned it in the lock, pushed again. Still, it didn't move. 'What the…? She doesn't want us getting in?'

'She doesn't want Tallie getting out,' Dean replied grimly, and he saw real fear in the man's eyes. Despite the irrational actions motivated by his grief, Ovington still loved his daughter. The sword was hanging down by his side, forgotten, for the moment. 'Back door?' Dean suggested.

Even though it was his own house, Ovington hesitated, thinking, before he nodded. People like him didn't use back doors. He jogged around the side of the house, through part of a formal garden and into a plain yard. The door opened easily. Dean guessed that Ellen, like her husband, had never ventured much into the mundane areas at the back of the house.

The corridors were dark and empty, their frantic footsteps echoing loudly as they hurried inside.

'Tallie?' Dean called, instinctively heading upstairs, intending to check her bedroom, remembering that she had used it as a refuge before, hiding under her bed.

'Here!' cried a small voice to his left and he spun round to see a pair of huge eyes watching him through a door which was open only a crack.

Dean slipped into the room and knelt on the floor in front of her. 'Tallie, is she here?'

'Yes… I think… I heard her outside, but she won't come in here. It was Mommy's room.' She said it as though it explained everything, and when Dean thought about it, she was probably right. Ellen Ovington had probably been reluctant to spend time in a room belonging to her husband's much loved former wife.

'It's gonna be ok,' he told her, and he was surprised to hear how convincing he sounded.

'Dean…' she whispered, leaning towards him as though about to entrust him with a secret. 'Is it all my fault?'

'What? No…'

'I prayed…' she muttered, her little voice so soft now that he could barely make out the words. 'I prayed that God would make her die… I just wanted her to go away, and stop hurting me… I prayed that she would die. But then,' she added, a squeak entering her voice which warned that she was almost in tears. 'Then Mrs King… and all this… it's my fault…'

'Tallie... Tallie, look at me. This is not your fault.'

'Daddy would never have killed her if it wasn't for me.'

Dean blinked. 'What happened?' he asked softly.

'She hurt me. All the time, and Daddy didn't know. Then he came home and she was hurting me… and he was mad… he ran up, and he pushed her. I don't think he meant for her to fall,' she concluded, her eyes wide open and earnest, shining with unshed tears. 'I was so happy, though, when I saw her fall… I know it's wrong, but…'

Lost for words, Dean hugged her tight, hoping that he could reassure her without saying anything. She sobbed unreserved into his shoulder.

Somewhere else, a loud noise disturbed the peace of the house, and Dean looked up, suddenly realising that he had forgotten about Ovington. _Damn…_

'Tallie, stay here, ok? Whatever happens, you should be safe here,' he promised, hoping that he wouldn't be proven wrong.

'Where are you going?'

'I need to find your dad. She'll be gone soon, but until she's gone, I need to protect him.'

She nodded. 'Ok.'

Dean left the room, hurrying along the dim corridor towards the front of the house, and thinking, _Hurry up, Sam._

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Sam made the walk, mentally, from the cemetery to Ovington's house. This many steps to the corner of the road, then that many minutes from there to the driveway… _They must be nearly there by now. _He had his eyes closed, deep in concentration. But he heard the sirens.

For several moments he stood as still as he could, hoping and praying that they were just passing through. But they stopped, and within a minute there were two cops prowling the cemetery, waving flashlights around to illuminate the dark area. Sam ducked behind Ellen Ovington's gravestone, crouching down on the grass.

It started to rain, slowly at first, then harder, in heavy drops which were cold when they landed on Sam's skin. He tried to think quickly as the flashlights came closer. He could set her alight now, and then run off before the cops could see him. But according to his estimation, Dean and Ovington would be arriving at the house about now, and he would prefer to wait a bit, to give Dean more chance to get away. But if he waited, he couldn't stay here.

Cursing his luck, Sam took off at a run, with his legs bent, ducking down to avoid the glare of the two wandering flashlights. Some twenty yards away from Ellen's grave, he found a bigger gravestone to hide behind, and sat down in its shadow to wait for them to leave. Between the now torrential rain and the damp grass, he was quickly soaked to the skin. The voices of the two cops carried easily across the graveyard, even in such a downpour, and Sam sat tensed, trying not to breathe too loud.

'I'll be damned… this one's all dug up…'

'Ellen Ovington… Jesus, it's that woman from the big house. You remember? Fell down the stairs, maybe ten days ago.'

'Really? Oh, yeah… now you mention it, I think I remember…'

_Oh, come on_, Sam thought incredulously. _Do you really want to stand here in the rain and discuss it?_ He looked at his watch. 13 minutes since they had left. It took maybe ten to walk to the house, so about now would be a good time to light her up. If only he could get to the damn grave. _Hold on, Dean…_

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Up ahead, silhouetted against the great void that was the hall, Ovington was standing in the corridor, walking towards the balcony. Crying out to the dim space as though carrying on a conversation with somebody who was floating out in the space before him.

'Ellen, listen to me,' he called, still walking forwards. Two steps and he'd be on the balcony. 'I'm sorry Ellen, so sorry. I just… I didn't know it was you, please forgive me, Ellen. Just don't hurt my daughter… I love you both; we can all be a family together.'

Dean sprinted up the corridor as Ovington stepped out onto the balcony. The distraught man cried out as some invisible force pushed him violently on, towards the edge, lifting him up…

Dean caught him around the knees and tackled him to the floor sideways, realising his mistake when the ground wasn't where it was supposed to be. Instead, the two men hit the stairs, hard, and rolled on, down the curving staircase to the hall floor. The corner of each step dug painfully into Dean's ribs, and he gave up trying to stop his descent, instead allowing his body to go limp, and bringing his arms up to protect his head. The hard flat floor came up rapidly to meet him, and when he finally reached it, it knocked the last of the air from his lungs.

After a few seconds, Dean pushed himself up slowly and painfully, groaning when every bruised muscle protested. Nearby, Ovington was stirring, too, rubbing his chest. Dean noticed that the sword had finally been knocked out of his hand, and was lying a few feet away from him on the floor. Unfortunately, Ovington noticed it, too, and he snatched it before Dean could manage to organise his abused limbs enough to move.

With a loud _thunk_ a glinting knife arrived from nowhere and sunk deeply into the wooden panelling beside Ovington's head. Dean looked around to where it had come from, just in time to duck another matching knife which had hurled itself across the room. Above them, a heavy shield bearing a colourful pattern of diamonds detached itself from the wall, and raised itself up above Ovington's head. Dean seized his wrist and yanked him away as the ancient metal crashed onto the floor.

Dean glanced around the room, waiting for Ellen's next attack, realising that she had no shortage of ammunition: the walls were glistening with old weapons and armour, and it was only a matter of time before something hit them.

Staggering to his feet, Dean looked around for somewhere to take cover, but they were as far from an exit as possible in the room, unless they risked climbing the stairs, which seemed suicidal. He ducked a flying battleaxe, clinging onto the handrail at the bottom of the stairs as his head swam alarmingly.

_Please, hurry up, Sam!_

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Sam was getting twitchy, every passing moment making him more worried. The two cops had moved on from discussing Mrs Ovington, and were now debating the best course of action over the open grave.

'Seems a bit disrespectful to just leave her there like that, though…'

'Yeah… you think we should fill it back in?'

_No, _thought Sam_, leave it, come on, it's raining; you can do it in the morning. _

'We could leave it for the morning… I mean, I don't want to dig in the rain.'

_Yes! That's right, now go home._

'You reckon the guy that dug it up's gone?'

Sam couldn't hear the mumbled reply, but he breathed a sigh of relief when the duo stepped away from the grave. They started walking, waving their flashlights again. Directly towards Sam.

_Shit!_ Sam scrambled to his feet, bent at the waist to retain the cover offered by the tombstone. If he ran to either side, he would have to cross the beam of a flashlight, and would be clearly visible to both cops. The only way he could go was forward, away from the cops. And away from the open grave.

Still running awkwardly bent, he moved away, holding his hands out in front of him like a blind man to avoid colliding with any headstones. When he was out of range of the twin lights, he changed direction, following the wall of the cemetery and circling back round towards Ellen Ovington's grave. He had to stop a couple of times to avoid the glare of the flashlights. Once he had to throw himself full length on the wet grass to avoid detection; another time he ducked behind a conveniently placed stone angel.

When he came close to Ellen's grave again, he moved stealthily, from stone to stone, fishing the lighter out of a pocket as he approached. Praying that he had used enough lighter fuel that she would still burn even in such wet weather, Sam flicked the lighter open, producing a small flame which was nevertheless bright in the darkness. He tried to shield it with his hand, feeling very exposed as he walked the last few steps to the grave's edge, followed by the circling flashlight.

He dropped it, and held his breath for a few seconds as it fell. Then finally, it caught, and flames spread out around Ellen Ovington's slack grey face and cold broken body.

Sam sighed. Loudly. Suddenly he stood in a beam of bright light, and the air was full of loud harsh shouts. He sprinted off, out of the graveyard and on towards the house.

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Thank you very much to everyone who has reviewed. I'm sorry that I didn't get back to you all individually, but I really enjoyed everybody's theories! I was worried that I might give something away if I replied! ;)

I'll be as quick as I can with the next (probably last) chapter. Reviews would help me to work quicker… ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Dean seized Ovington around the wrist and yanked him to his feet, pulling him out the way as Ellen's attack intensified. Ovington was still clutching his heavy sword in one hand, waving it vaguely as if it would protect him. Another sword, of a different design to the one he carried, was wedged into the floor beside him, where it had missed.

The last of the weapons detached themselves from the wall; all together as if Ellen was preparing one, final, fatal attack, one so violent that any space they dodged to would be full of flying steel. And there was nothing to do, nowhere to run… Dean held his arms over his head in a futile attempt to protect it, and braced himself, waiting for the strike.

But it didn't come. An unearthly shriek filled the air, and with a cacophony of clattering and ringing of steel on stone, the assorted weapons crashed to the floor, released, unthrown.

Then, silence, for a few seconds. She was gone. Ovington's next move was one born out of grief and despair, an outpouring of emotion expressed impulsively with a random action. Dean honestly believed that the guy didn't mean to do it; and he was surprised at himself – he wasn't usually so forgiving. Especially when it _hurt,_ so damn much…

Dean tried to gasp but his inhalation was airless and silent. His fingers clutched at his stomach, frozen with shock as his blood seeped out over his hands. Standing slumped, he looked up at Ovington, wide eyed.

Ovington shook his head, his eyes in their deep sockets wide open with horror. 'I… she's gone… I… I'm sorry…' Shaking his head in denial, either of his action or of his wife's departure, he fled the room, leaving through the heavy front doors, which responded easily to pressure now that the ghost was not holding them closed.

Dean reached out for the stair rail when his head started to swim, but missed, and fell to his knees. Suddenly a face was in front of him, but he couldn't see, it was blurry. _Sam?_ _No, too small…_ A hand tapped his shoulder, to get his attention.

'She's gone,' Tallie said. Not a question, a statement of fact. Dean realised that she was trying to comfort him. 'What's wrong? Oh… oh no…' she added, staring at his bloody shirt. His eyes focused with great effort, and he looked at her, trying hard not to topple forwards and collapse on top of her.

'Can you find my brother for me?' he asked hoarsely, squinting to keep her in focus. She was wide eyed again, it seemed like she always was. Maybe she just had big eyes. Her eyebrows were drawn inwards in a distressed frown, and her eyes were glassy with tears. _Get it together, Dean, she's terrified. _'Tallie… it's ok, I'll be fine.' He lied so convincingly, he almost convinced himself. 'Can you find Sam for me, please?'

'Sam…' she repeated doubtfully.

'He's at the graveyard. He might be on his way here, even… just get him to come, ok?' he asked, keeping his voice as steady as he could.

'The graveyard? It's scary… I don't want to be on my own… I want to stay with you.'

'I know you can be brave,' he told her softly, begging her with his eyes.

'Ok….' She nodded, her eyes shining with tears that she had still not shed. She stood up, and turned away. At the door, she turned back. 'Don't go anywhere,' she instructed. But he couldn't hear- he was slumped against the stair rail, eyes closed. _No! _She screamed, silently. Chewing her knuckles, she stood hovering in the doorway, panicking. _I need to find the other one… Sam. Oh god, this is all my fault…Her, and Mrs King, and Dean… and Daddy, where's Daddy? _

She didn't even notice the rain as she slipped out into the night.

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Sam trudged up the road, soaked and worrying. Part of him wanted to run. Another part wanted to stop, to turn around, to never arrive and have to see how the night's events had turned out. So he kept walking, automatically, one step after another.

The rain was so heavy now that he didn't see the shape approaching him until she was right in front of him, materialising through the rain as though she had stepped out from behind a curtain. Tallie, distraught, shaking, crying. She stopped abruptly in front of him, without meeting his eye.

'I'm so sorry Sam,' she sobbed. He's dying… maybe he's dead. And it's all my fault.'

_Stop._

_Suddenly, déjà-vu, so strong it made his insides freeze up, tense under his skin, solid. He'd seen it before. A road, and part of him wanted to follow, and part of him never wanted to see where it would end. But, before, he didn't know where it ended. Then, out of the rain, which he could see, but not feel. A figure. She didn't arrive, he couldn't see her coming. She just appeared. She was crying, and she wouldn't look at him. 'I'm so sorry Sam,' she said. 'He's dying, maybe he's dead, and it's all my fault.' And Sam didn't have to ask her; he knew who she meant. And something froze inside him. _

_And then he woke up. 4.45am, not as early as sometimes, but Dean was still asleep. To take his mind off the dream, vivid in his mind's eye, even when his real eyes were open, he went to the laptop. They needed a job, they'd been idle for too long, and Dean was restless – well, except that now he was sleeping like a baby. But still, they had been looking for work for a while. When he found an article which had potential, something warned him away from it. Not that one, it's not what we're looking for. But Dean saw the article, when he finally woke up, and thought it was worth checking out. Sam argued. Didn't work. _

_Then, later, in Ovington's hallway. Tallie, talking to Dean. The little girl was somehow familiar, but he couldn't remember how. The dream had faded. Still, something told him she was no good for them, she was trouble. He didn't trust her, without really knowing why. _

_Now, the dream was back, filling his head, filling his vision. Then he realised why he could only see the dream suddenly, nothing else. Because it was standing in front of him._

Tallie stood, plucking at the tall man's jacket, but he wouldn't look at her. She told him he needed to hurry up, but he didn't answer. He was staring at her, without looking in her eyes, and his face looked like he was thinking about something else: it was the same look Daddy had been wearing since _she_ died. Her panic increased; she needed to get back to Dean; she needed to make Sam understand how urgent it was. She stood on tiptoe, and touched his face. He blinked, coming back to reality. There was blood on her fingers, she noticed; they had left a faint mark on Sam's jaw.

'Please…' she begged him, seizing his hand with both of hers, and tugging it in the direction of the house. 'He needs you to help him.'

Sam shook his head to clear it, and forced himself to be rational. 'I'm coming,' he said, trying to sound reassuring, and wishing there was someone to reassure _him_. _Oh, God, Dean... how bad? Hang on, I'm coming. _

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Dean blinked hard, forcing himself to keep his eyes open and concentrate on staying conscious, watching the room sway. He was slumped uncomfortably against the cold banister, but it seemed too much effort to move. _Damn,_ but it hurt.

He heard the door open, and Sam's hasty graceless footsteps stumbling towards him across the floor. He blinked again, clamping his eyes tight shut and opening them again with some difficulty, trying to clear the mist which was blurring his vision. Sam's face swam in front of him, tensed with concern, his mouth opening and closing, making sounds which Dean couldn't recognise as words. His eyes wanted to close, so badly.

'No, Dean, stay awake!'

He heard the words, but he was out before he could remember what they meant.

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Sam felt like he was clinging on to sanity by a hair as he knelt beside his brother's body. He was so pale, lying in a dark sticky pool, with blood still seeping out of a deep cut in his stomach. There was a cut on his head, too, and a darkening bruise on his forehead. He was slumped, boneless, against the stair rail. His eyes were open, but just a crack, and they were glassy and unfocused, looking up at Sam's face without showing any recognition.

'Oh, God…oh, God… what happened, Dean? I… oh, God…' Sam knew he was rambling and incoherent, but he couldn't think of anything useful to say. He shook his head slightly, wearing an expression of open-mouthed horror, mixed with helplessness. All thought had frozen in his head, all he could see was his brother's broken body, and his eyes, full of pain, and slipping closed…

'No, Dean, stay awake!' he objected, suddenly. He shook his brother's shoulder gently, uselessly. He raked his hands through his hair, willing himself to snap out of it, to make sense of what was happening.

He heard soft footsteps behind him, and a quiet gasp. _Tallie_. He had completely forgotten her presence, lost in shock. Now she had crept up behind him, and he realised that she must be petrified. He knew he should be strong for her, comfort her. Take responsibility. But, right at the moment, he didn't know how to comfort even himself. He wished Dean would wake up and tell him what to do.

'Oh, God, will he be ok?' asked a small voice behind him, made smaller by the terror that echoed in every word. Sam turned to face her, trying desperately to look like he wasn't terrified, like he knew the answer to her question.

'Yes, he's gonna be fine,' he said, but Tallie still looked doubtful. He couldn't make his voice steady enough to reassure her. _How did Dean do it? When we were little, every time it was really bad, he said it would be ok, and I believed him… I didn't realise how scared he must have been, or how hard it is to lie…_

Tallie drew back, away from him, shaking her head, tears streaming unstoppably down her small face. 'It's my fault,' she said, again. 'He's going to die…'

Sam tried not to choke as he heard her say that, the statement sounding so definite in his ears. He struggled to breathe. _How did Dean do it? _He wondered again, reaching out towards Tallie, trying to calm himself. 'No,' he said. Somehow, his voice was stronger now. Maybe because he was so determined that it must be true, he managed to make it sound as if it was. 'No, he's not going to die.'

Tallie's eyes, huge and glossy with tears, finally met his. She searched his dark eyes for a sign, to tell her if he could be trusted. 'Are you sure?' she asked, eventually.

'Yes,' Sam lied. It was easier, this time. He didn't even blink. 'Yes, I'm sure.'

After a pause, she nodded, sniffed, and took a deep breath. Sam remembered the surprising authority she had managed when addressing the butler, that morning. 'We should call an ambulance,' she told him, and he realised that he hadn't thought of that until she said it. _Hell, she's more in control than I am, _Sam thought wryly.

'Yes,' he replied. Tallie produced a cell phone from a pocket.

'My Daddy's… I guess I'll give it back when he notices it's gone,' she muttered sheepishly, holding out the phone to Sam. He took it carefully. His hands were shaking. Tallie gripped his shoulder with little fingers. 'Sam,' she said. 'It's going to be ok.'

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'I told you so, Sam,' she said, later, when the doctor came out in the morning after long hours of waiting. A tall African-American, poker-faced in his professional white jacket. Sam had feared the worst, but it turned out that the guy just had a serious face.

'He's going to be fine. He was a bit beat up; bruised, a couple cracked ribs. And he lost a lot of blood. But we've stitched him up, given him a transfusion. No major organs were affected; he was lucky -,' (_Yeah, lucky enough to get stabbed,_ thought Sam.) '-So he's going to be fine, good as new, after a few days resting.'

Tallie had stopped listening after the first sentence; she was too busy dancing from foot to foot, tugging on Sam's jacket, saying 'I told you so.'

'Yeah,' Sam replied, laughing with relief. 'Yeah, you were right.' He turned back to the doctor. 'Can we see him?'

'Yeah, sure. He's been asking for you.'

Tallie ran past Sam into the room as soon as the door was open, and leapt up onto the bed beside Dean. He winced, slightly, as she pressed against his ribs, but she wasn't heavy.

'Hey,' he grinned, looking up at Sam.

'You ok?' Sam asked, softly, over Tallie's head.

'Yeah.'

'I told him you would be!' Tallie commented, still revelling in her triumph.

'What, Sammy, you didn't have faith in me?' Dean asked, raising his eyebrows.

'Well, I…'

'It's ok, I told him,' Tallie said, as though assuring Dean that it was ok, she had Sam under control.

In the doorway, somebody cleared their throat. Sam spun round, and Dean peered round Tallie to see: it was Ovington. He was bedraggled and still dripping wet after presumably spending the night outside. The dark sockets of his eyes were deeper than ever, making him look tired and unhealthy. His face wore an expression of guilt and awkwardness, but had lost the manic light that it had manifested the previous night. He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame as if trying to be inconspicuous.

'Daddy!' Tallie yelled, still high on relief, throwing herself at him and wrapping her arms around his knees.

Ovington patted her head absently, but affectionately, looking at Dean. 'Um…' he began, haltingly. 'I'm glad you're ok. I'm sorry.'

Sam glared at him fiercely, unconsciously placing himself protectively between Dean and Ovington.

Dean grunted in irritation, now having to lean sideways to see past Sam's blockade. 'It's ok,' he muttered, almost surprised to hear himself say it.

'Dean!' Sam objected, spinning round. He was planning to elaborate, but he couldn't find any words which seemed appropriate, so he just glared furiously at his brother, not entirely sure why this comment had made him so angry. _How can it possibly be ok that this guy stabbed you and left you for dead? That's "ok" with you, is it? You freak! _

Dean stared back at him with raised eyebrows and an innocent, politely-questioning expression. Sam seethed.

Ovington, meanwhile, looked stunned. 'I… uh… I'm going to give myself up to the police. But I just wanted to say, first… I'm sorry. And… thank you.' He gazed at his shoes with apparent interest as he spoke.

'Don't do that,' Dean said suddenly. He was surprising himself with this sudden forgiving attitude: usually he didn't take too kindly to people who attacked him. Then he realised why he was doing it. Not for Ovington. For Tallie.

'What?' Sam and Ovington asked in unison.

'Just… take good care of her. You're all she's got, and she deserves the best.'

Ovington nodded, tears shining in his eyes. 'I will. Thank you.'

Dean shrugged, suddenly embarrassed by the man's heartfelt thanks.

Tallie was falling asleep on her feet. 'I'll take her home…' Ovington mumbled, half turning away. He picked her up, cradling her sleepy form in his arms, breathing in the scent of his lively, beautiful daughter, and realising that the faint scent of his first wife's spicy perfume was lingering in Tallie's hair.

There was a brief silence between the brothers after Ovington carried his daughter out of the room. Dean chewed his lip, looking down at the smooth white sheet across his knees.

'Dean, he nearly - ,'

'I know.'

'If it had been me, would you just let it go?'

Sometimes it was easier to just tell the truth. 'No.'

Sam looked about ready to launch into a rant, but Dean cut him off, finally turning to look at his brother. 'Sam, I'm ok. Tallie needs him… I think he'll be... less crazy, now it's all over, and Ellen's gone.'

'You scared me, for a while there,' Sam admitted quietly.

'Yeah, but you had Tallie to protect you, right?' Dean reminded him, grinning.

Sam laughed, despite himself. 'Yeah.'

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The hospital staff were suspicious, when Dean told them they didn't need to call the police.

'Somebody stabbed, you, though, right?'

'No, I, uh.. walked into a... sharp... thing,' Dean invented, unable to think of anything very convincing at such short notice.

'Look, if you're protecting someone...'

'I'm not'

'Or if you're worried about them wanting revenge if you press charges...'

'I'm not.'

The doctor narrowed his eyes, and was silent for a long moment, studying Dean's face. Dean stared him down.

'Well... if you're sure.'

'Yup. I'm sure.'

The doctor spread his hands in defeat, shrugging his shoulders. _Well, fine then, _his expression seemed to say, _If you're going to be like that. _Dean grinned impudently.

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It seemed appropriate – cyclical – that now they were walking up to the massive house in the rain pouring rain again, just as they had on the first day. Roberts opened the door, and didn't look any more pleased to see them than he had the first time. With a sour look, he disappeared up the stairs, leaving them dripping onto the stone floor.

The hallway's décor had been through the wringer in the last couple of days. The weapons which had covered the walls had all been removed from the room after Ellen had thrown them around; apparently Ovington had decided they were too dangerous. The chandelier was also gone, of course, and the twisted remnants of it had been cleared from the floor, though there were some marks on the stonework where it had struck. Now, the room looked less grand: just empty, a huge space with nothing to fill it.

Tallie crept up on them from behind. She was using the back stairs almost every time, now. 'Daddy… can't come down,' she explained.

Dean nodded. _If I was him, I wouldn't want to see me either._ 'You gonna be ok, kiddo?' he asked her.

She nodded. 'Yeah. We're going to move. Find a house which is… the right size, just for the two of us.' Her face broke into a huge grin. 'And maybe a dog… or a kitten…'

'Get a dog. Then if your Dad starts seeing another badly chosen woman, you can set the dog on her.'

Tallie smiled wickedly. 'I thought maybe I'd find him a nice wife. So that he doesn't choose another one like _her._'

Dean nodded, laughing. 'Good plan.'

A silence descended on them. Time to go. 'Well, we'll see you, some time, Tallie. If we're in the area.'

'Ok… I'll miss you.'

'Yeah, we'll miss you too. Look after your dad, ok? Keep him under control.'

'You look after Sam.'

Dean laughed, and Sam rolled his eyes. 'I always do.'

'Goodbye!'

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_Fin_

Lol, the ending is very Disney, isn't it? Ah well… a bit of fluff never did anyone any harm. :) Review, please!


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